Such a child, they're told, is always from another realm: left alone at the edge of a wood while the last bits of moonlight disappear in the sky. Or in a box, wrapped in a blanket with the familiar green and pink stripe hospital nurseries use. She has ten fingers and toes, clear eyes, a lusty yell which they find stirs in them an emotion of such gratefulness; it feels almost infinite. They go home with their new treasure, to what follows after: a life filled not only with pleasure but also pain, which they vow to carry with as much tenderness as they can muster. The child moves farther away from the shore where she was born, of which she has no real memory anyway; she learns to make deals, drive, drink kombucha. She'd prefer not to think of what the old-fashioned still call suitors. This life after all, foundling or not, is all about self- invention. Meanwhile, thickets of silver sprout on the parents' heads. One likes to watch Korean drama on TV. The other has taken up gardening, though there are never any nuggets of gold to be found in the weeds.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.